


Pushing The Limit

by Fedora Of Adorableness (TheTimelessChild0)



Category: White Collar
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Big Brother Mozzie, Britishness, Desperation, Embarrassed Neal Caffrey, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s02e06 In the Red, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Parental Peter Burke, Protective Peter Burke, Wetting, bladdershy neal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 10:55:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29998305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTimelessChild0/pseuds/Fedora%20Of%20Adorableness
Summary: Preparing for emergencies. Neal needs some help with that.
Kudos: 7
Collections: WC²





	Pushing The Limit

He swallowed. His heart was throbbing in his chest. This was it. Forget Monaco, forget the Sun City; even the Canary Islands was peanuts compared to what he was about to undergo. He didn’t even enter the world of gambling without a backup plan, something else to invest in if it was a financially dry day, week or month. He considered it a hobby.

One he no longer took part in, since all legal games were rigged more than the illegal ones. Neal sat down a few seats down from Donovan, and was duly given a set of cards. As far as he remembered, he had never ventured into the world of endless poker. He just didn’t have the patience for it. Or the constitution to sit down for that long. But he would manage. He _had to_.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Neal passed the time between his turns by preserving a sensible rhythm of breathing, in and out, and in, and out. The only interruption was a stiff swallow of his drink. The last sip came with a surprise. Shaped like a sense of unrest in his extremities. Or rather, right above them. He shifted in his seat to make it go away...and froze. _No_ . _Not here. Not now. Not while playing the longest game of Texas Hold’em he’d ever played._

“Call,” he quickly moved his chips, trying his goddamn hardest to ignore the way his bladder protruded as he leaned.

He was well and thoroughly screwed. He couldn’t get up; there were no comfort breaks in poker. The worst of it all was, that there was nothing he could really do to hold it in without drawing unwanted attention. So he just sat there, willing his bladder to hang on for just a little longer.

The game progressed, and Neal grew quiet. His muscles were tense, tied up in knots, locked shut, as closely as he could muster under the circumstances. 

Donovan attempted to psych him out, but he successfully rebuffed every such attempt. Until, he needed to answer in length about his supposed past. Well, it was _real_ ; it just wasn’t quite as impressive as rumours would suggest. He needed to recite hearsay verbatim. While keeping his pants dry. Okay. No problem.

He started off vague, then gained traction, _losing_ control. His underwear was 75% piss by the end of it. And he didn’t feel any better, as a consolation, either.

It became unbearable. Every second felt like it would be the one when all hell broke loose...in the form of pee. _Ugh, don’t think about pee..._

His bladder pulsed every time his heart didn’t—throb, throb, throb. An endless cacophony of nerves, tugging at every shred of sanity. How he was able to play poker in the midst of all of this, he had no idea. Whatever autopilot was at the reins, he was immeasurably grateful.

He decided that he needed to ease the pressure. Lighten the load, so to speak. He knew the bottom half of his suit was as dark as his jacket, and if he were really lucky, it would soak into the chair, which he could somewhat tolerate for the sake of preserving his cover.

Neal made yet another move with his chips, leaned back and let nature take its course. The relief did not show on his face, but _boy_ , did he get it, nonetheless. He looked at his cards to focus the muscles in his face to melt to his will.

It wasn’t a particularly pleasant sensation, stopping the flow once it had begun, but Caffrey convinced himself that it would have to do for now.

He repeated this gesture a few more times to ensure peak performance.

Player after player got knocked out each round. Finally, the one to his left got flustered at the loss, banging his glass on the table as he threw his chips to the centre.

As quiet as it probably sounded to Donovan and the rest of Abramov’s goons, it startled Neal to the point of no return. He knew, if he tried to stop it know, it would hurt so much, it would show on his face. And he couldn’t let that happen.

He schooled his expression for the tenth or hundredth time since the game started, letting himself pee through every inch of clothing, helpfully disguised beneath the table.

Once it breached past the chair, he let the drops from it fall completely silently on his shoes. The stream going down his leg was spread around with his shoes as well. He could run out before anyone discovered the puddle.

There was still some drink left in his glass, so he strategically nudged it closer to the edge of the table, tipping it forward to land in his lap. It wasn’t a lot of liquid at his disposal, but enough for the central area of visibility.

“Oops, sorry everyone, I’m such a clutz...that’s what you get for paying too much attention to your cards,” he muttered, grabbing a handkerchief from his pocket and pretending to dab, while really he was scrubbing every inch of moisture from his crotch.

Neal was no stranger to failed cons and tricky situations, being cornered into admitting things about himself in order to escape. The ledge of the palace, one cold English night sprung to mind... This was a new low. He had just peed in a chair at a poker game. It sucked major balls.

* * *

He had won. The smile on his face was genuine. Not only because he had succeeded in saving Olly and his mom, but because _not having to pee_ does improve your mood, no matter how you take care of it.

When he stood, he made sure to pull the chair in immediately, folding his hands in his lap to distract from the spot everyone present already knew would be there. 

  
“Well, guess today wasn’t your day, Mr Donovan,” he quipped, raising his hands slightly in a companionable gesture, still very blatantly protecting his dignity. Only he knew the true scale of dignity at risk, of course.

Neal had Sam write out the winnings in a check to his bank account, the very same he’d used without success earlier. Now it _would_ have sufficient funds, if only for a time.

“I’m in a hurry,” was his explanation. It was true; walking around in soaked suit trousers wasn’t exactly comfortable.

He counted himself lucky that his anklet was off, and that it would remain off until later. It gave him a free pass to hide away in a subway car, rather than take a taxi.

The carriages tended to smell like urine, but it was difficult to not feel exposed, knowing that he was the source and someone must be able to detect the direction, of which said stench originated. 

It was a blessing that the little guy was not there to greet him this time. He could _so_ not stand the confrontation right now. Instead, he just ran straight for the bathroom, hopping in the shower. The freshness was soothing on his rapidly reddening skin. After lathering up the sore areas, he went to work on his suit. He could always send the pair to the dry cleaner, but not like this. Not with the smell spelling out exactly what happened to them in the first place. No chance. First, he scrubbed them with soap and warm water in the sink.

Naturally, it was this moment that fate picked to allow Moz entry.

“Neal?” he beckoned for his overly optimistic friend, who was currently wallowing in self-pity.

  
“In here, Moz. Bonjour,” Caffrey quipped humorlessly.

Haversham nodded, until he realised what sounds were coming from the bathroom. It wasn’t the sound of the shower, sink or urination.

“What are you doing?”

“Washing. It’s what you do when something gets _filthy_ ,” Neal pointed out.

“Aha. You do know there’s a hamper right here in the hallway where you can leave these types of things?” 

“Not applicable in this instance,”

“And, why is that?” Mozzie prodded.  
  


“Because I said so,” he cut the string on the man’s metaphorical fishing rod.

As these words left his mouth, the con man strode past his friend, wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist.

“Right...you’re hiding something. Which is highly unlike you,” Moz remarked.

“Really?” Neal disagreed.

“Well, you’re not usually _this_ secretive. All I wanted to know was why you were washing your clothes the old-fashioned way, admittedly implying curiosity about what happened to said clothes...but you’re redirecting both inquiries away from the conversation. Suddenly there’s something wholly innocuous you _can’t_ tell me?”

“Looks like you figured out what’s going on, once again!” Caffrey congratulated sarcastically.

“You’re being facetious. Okay, something is _definitely_ going on,”

“Nothing gets past you,” he tied his tie, absentmindedly throwing his underwear in the hamper.

“There’s a first time for everything,” Mozzie muttered, narrowing his eyes at the sight.

“You want to say hello to the Suit, or make yourself scarce?” Neal gave him the heads up. His paranoid friend went with the latter.

“Good luck hiding this from him,” he advised as he ran.

“I can’t tell if you’re being genuine...”

“Enjoy the mystery,” quoted the bald head before it disappeared down the stairs.

Soon after, there were sounds of someone coming _up_ the stairs. Peter opened the door, and the first words out of him were “You changed,”

“You know how long limitless poker games can go on, ‘cause believe me, I _do_...” Neal commented, putting up a leg for the anklet.

Agent Burke put it on, somewhat wondering why he hadn’t actually mentioned the precise length in that sentence.

His eyes fell to the pile of books Caffrey frequently kept on the table. On top was a metro card. With the freedom to do so, the man had travelled underground, the slower alternative to a taxi. Neal had made it perfectly clear on multiple occasions, that his abstinence from the MTA went beyond the fact that he legally _couldn’t_.

“You know, I could’ve given you a ride after the game,” he mentioned casually.

“Yeah, I know, I just...didn’t want to bother you,” the CI shrugged.

“Oh, it wouldn’t have been a problem at all,” Peter assured him.

“You know, the subway isn’t half bad once you get past the smell of urine,”

“And sweat,” the agent added, knowingly.

“And sweat,” Neal repeated quietly in agreement. Of course, only he knew that wasn’t the main offending odour onboard.

The Suit left, reminding Neal to transfer the winnings to the FBI as evidence.

On the way back to Brooklyn, Burke couldn’t help but feel like he was missing something _crucial_. It was similar to the sense that he was being lied to, except Neal never lied(to him). Every false statement was told facetiously, not meant to be believed in the first place, like when he denied planning the music box heist. The shrug sealed in the sarcasm thick as syrup.

* * *

While the other agents were cuffing Donovan and informing the staff that the New York Room had to close pending investigation, Peter took a stroll. Something had happened at the game; he just knew it. Exhaustion didn’t account for the man’s _off_ mood at the apartment.

In the centre of the room, where the table should be, there was only a floor, on which someone was rolling a rug from one end to the other.

The lady at the desk, with the name Sam clipped to her shirt, noticed the overly observant officer. She walked over to him.

“Can I help you, Agent Burke?” she’d overheard his name from her bosses, who fortunately were not in cuffs...yet.

“Yeah, you mind telling me what happened to the rug?” he inquired politely.

“We had a bit of an...incident with one of the players,” Sam explained.

“Did you see who it was?” Peter asked, expecting from her answer that she hadn’t.

“Sorry, no, everyone had already left,”

She pointed to where the chairs and table had been moved, almost in the same fashion as when there was a game about a start.

“What kind of an incident are we talking about here?” the agent asked Sam.

“Honestly, I’m not really sure. At a guess, maybe whoever is responsible had a bit too much to drink. Either way, they had a certain kind of...mishap while playing,” this, too, was vague, but Burke got the idea.

“Where did they sit?”

“On the left, facing the dealer,” she stated simply.

He thanked her, pulling out his phone and dialling up Caffrey.

“‘Sup?” Neal greeted.

“Just a quick question,” Peter introduced innocently. “You didn’t mention precisely where you sat in relation to Donovan,”

“On the left, facing the dealer,” he recited.

“Good to know, there exist no detail too small, nor too insignificant,” his handler reminded him.

“I know how _important_ those reports are,” the con man sassed bravely, hanging up.

Well. This would most probably not end up in any of the paperwork. Nor would he add it in.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“I talked to Sam,” he told Neal back at the office. Caffrey did not raise his head in response.

He continued, “They replaced the rug no problem, so you don’t need to worry about that at all,” Peter assured.

This got his attention. He looked at his friend, gauging a reaction, an attitude towards the CI that had now suddenly changed.

The eyes were kind. The smile patient and plain, allowing him to study the face in front of him for as long as he would like to.

He looked down solemnly. “You know,” Neal pointed out the obvious.

“I know,” Burke confirmed. “What happened?” he inquired.

Neal looked at him, frowning derisively. “You know what happened,”

“Not _how_ it happened,” Peter pointed out.

“Ask a urologist,” Caffrey hissed under his breath, returning diligently to his paperwork.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” his handler hinted gently.

“Why does it matter to you so much?” he grumbled.

“Because I know, that contrary to your new casino lady friend, you are perfectly capable of limiting your liquor consumption, and therefore underwent this ordeal _sober_ ,”

“And?” Neal deadpanned, still not looking up.

“Neal, you’re not 6,” Peter stated the obvious.

“Yes, I am well aware, thank you,” the CI slapped on a smile, expression wholly unimpressed with the agent’s observation.

“Okay, what I mean is I find it hard to believe a man of your intelligence can just have an _accident_ at the drop of a hat,” the man commented.

That was the last straw. “If you’re trying to embarrass me, there’s no need; _I_ got that covered,” Caffrey shooed him away.

The Suit defeatedly patted Socrates, turning around to grab Neal’s shoulder. He squeezed it softly, but the words “cowboy up” never breached his lips.

“For the record...the smell wouldn’t have bothered me. One look at your face would’ve told me it wasn’t your fault, Neal,” he moved his hand to stroke the young con’s back.

“I’m just trying to put it behind me, which is pretty damn hard with you asking all these goddamn questions,” Neal whined.

“I can tell; you’re cursing,” Peter noted. The sophisticated gentleman tended to avoid language like that in professional circumstances.

“Pardon moi Français,” he apologised, lightly and eloquently.

“Come on. The glass is relatively soundproof,”

“Relatively?” Neal raised a dubious eyebrow.

“Nothing’s perfect. Please, Neal. I really want to know,” his concern for the CI was evident in his tone. So, Caffrey acquiesced.

* * *

“I guess, I just didn’t see that coming. I knew it was poker, and there were gonna be a lot of players bowing out one by one, and when they told us it was going to be endless, I figured I could handle it. It really was unchartered territory for me. Of all the heists, cons and tricks I’ve pulled over the years, gambling has remained fairly innocuous, logistically speaking. I’ve _gone_ in good time before the game, or pushed through until after. I somewhat knew where it was headed when I received the notion of needing to go initially. I’ve blocked out large parts from when I was primarily occupied with my horribly impractical bladder threatening to spill its contents loudly and messily; but I’m pretty sure all players were still standing at the start,” Neal retold, referring to the beginning of his toilet-related troubles rather than the match itself.

“So it wasn’t like I could just get up and go right then and there,”

“I’m not so sure that’s true,” Peter mused.

“Seriously?” Caffrey was beyond sceptical of this.

“Of course. When you gotta go, you gotta go,” the agent shrugged, casually.

“It’s not that simple, Peter!” Neal insisted. “There’s a protocol for these types of things, for a reason. Leaving means forfeiting several turns. That risks signalling that your hand is bad, and you’re just trying to delay the inevitable,” he pointed out.

“As opposed to what you ended up doing, which was...” Burke countered, keenly.

“No one else left the table,”

Peter scoffed in disbelief. “No way is that true. Think about it. Hard and long,” he challenged.

Neal sighed, but did so. He scanned his memory of the evening, everyone’s movements...and paused on the man who’d brought him over the edge of his control. He realised he knew who that was. Simon, frontman for one of Mozzie’s countless archnemeses; Rufus, to be precise. More importantly, he vaguely recalled the Brit getting up twice, both times after he had already made his move on the board.

“Simon did,”

“Do I want to know this person?” Peter asked by instinct. He’d gotten past Mozzie’s criminal tendencies; if he had to pretend not have heard the name, then so be it.

“Not necessarily,” Caffrey acknowledged the man’s obvious distaste for his company. “The point is, he’s a credible witness to the social circumstances that led me to make the decision _I_ did about the same dilemma. He can settle this debate fairly,”

_One phone call later..._

“ ‘ello?” Simon wisely did not verify who they had reached.

“Hi. I’d like to discuss the events of last Friday night at the New York room with you,” Peter introduced the subject matter at hand.

“What’s that got to do with me?” he blankly denied the connection.

“Nothing. We just need your expertise,” Neal attempted to calm the hooligan.

“Caffrey? Who’ve you gotten mixed up with now? If I’m talking to a Fed I’m hanging up, alright,” the Englishman warned.

“Look buddy, for the duration of this call, I don’t give a rat’s ass about your alleged crimes. I’m not interested. Temporary immunity. Pretend I’m not here,”

“Fat chance, but nevermind that. State your business, gentlemen,” Simon smoothly surrendered to the circumstances.

“Remember when you got up, during the game?” he cut to the chase.

“Yeah, to pop to the loo. Hang on a minute; you stayed seated, despite oozing with signs of a significant struggle to contain yourself in that regard,”

“Yeah, well, you weren’t exactly helping, what with leaving the table so abruptly and everything...” Neal commented dryly.

“Oh bollocks, did I make you piss yourself or summin’?” Simon realised the odds at play when he departed.

“Yes,” Caffrey did not deny the insinuation.

“Bloody hell, that’s no fun...I’m really sorry about that, slick,” Si apologised sympathetically.

“You couldn’t have known- or rather _shouldn’t_ ,” the culprit bitterly stated.

“I’m British; we’re very _wise_ on that kind of thing,” the man mentioned.

“Hence this search for _your_...advice,” Peter explained.

“Ah, now I see what’s going on. Exchange notes, given the shared circumstances with different outcomes. Well, copper, this might be an area where I know Neal better than you,”

“Debatable,” the Suit scoffed.

“I bet you’ve noticed at various points, that Neal has a tendency not to think things through. Well, when it comes to this, he has a tendency to overanalyse,” Simon stated.

“Debatable,” Neal reasoned.

“Let’s not waste time splitting hairs, ol’ chum. Just tell me what was going through your head when you resolved to glue your arse to the chair instead of taking a potty break?”

“That I wouldn’t be allowed,” Caffrey supplied. “The game is supposed to progress seamlessly, devoid of interruptions,”

  
“We’re all human, for fucks sake! I think they take that into account within the definition of non-stop poker. You’re allowed to stretch your legs,” he argued.

  
“I’m assuming you mean metaphorically- this isn’t pee-wee soccer,” the con man rebutted.

“Needing a wee little pee doesn’t have an _age group_ , though,” Simon pointed out.

“Neal also mentioned missing a turn, and being suspected of artificially lengthening your place in the game,” Burke brought up.

“Hogwash. Genius Gatsby over here knows the rules as well as I. If you have to take an important phone call or start coughing or whatnot, it skips you, like in Chutes and Ladders,”

“So, that’s not it, huh?” Peter remarked.

“No way in hell,” Simon agreed. “Calm yer confidence scheme collywobbles Caffrey, and spit it out. Whatcha actually worried about?”

“Attracting attention,” Neal confessed.

“Of course. The Achilles heel of every grifter. Follows you into every aspect of your life, don’t it, Georgie,” the chav guffawed warmly.

“Mhm,” the man intoned awkwardly.

“There’s a reason why our good Queen Bess 2.0 told her subjects to keep calm and carry on. It’s a good policy in most anxiety-inducing situations, such as this. Christ, just do what you normally do. Turn up the casual. You’re one smooth criminal. Ignore everyone else in the room, state your business _politely_ and swan along as if nothing happened. No one’s gonna challenge a champion of etiquette anyway, surely that’s not rocket science?” Simon lectured.

“You make a very good point, Guy Fawkes,” the bond forger complimented.

“Pleasure’s all mine, pup. Arrividerci, Figaro,” _click_.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Well, they say practice makes perfect. I guess I just got a homework assignment,” Neal noted.

“You haven’t started mine yet, don’t forget,” Peter corrected, grabbing a piece of paper.

“I’m not so sure I follow,” he gazed upon the sheet with intrigued eyes.

“I’ll easily agree that the thing at the poker game was rough. A toss in the deep end, so to speak. But, that does not exclude similar issues from arising in the future,” his handler cautioned.

“That’s a stretch,” Caffrey frowned somewhat indignantly at this assumption.

“Is it?” Burke shot back a frown of his own, using prior events as leverage, for _once_.

“I don’t know, I’m not Nostradamus,” Neal shrugged.

“Who?”

“French supposed Psychic, flimsy record of accuracy to his predictions,” the con man dismissed the reference indifferently.

“Listen, I care about you, you _know_ that. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable in a situation I put you in without me being aware of it, at the very least. And I want to be able to help you through these kinds of hang-ups if I can,” the Suit softly spoke to the younger consultant.

“Hence the list,” Neal understood its purpose now.

“It’s for your own good. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about; we’re all different, in our own special way,” Peter comforted the sensitive guy.

He nodded, grabbing a really expensive pen and starting the process of writing them all down.

“So, how should I organise it?” Caffrey checked.

“What do you mean?” 

“There are the ones that have come into play when I’ve worked with you, that you just haven’t been privy to yet...no pun intended,” Neal explained. “Then there are ones from before we met, and ones from way back when, that I’ve deliberately avoided confronting, successfully so far,” he stated.

“Start with the ones I know, then the ones I don’t, finally ones I should,” Burke instructed.

Neal did so. There were a lot of them. The agent gasped a couple of times at understanding his friend’s behaviour during some earlier cases, times he already managed to defeat the eccentricities and wiles of the whimsical wild thing he’d released from the very same prison the man had escaped from, for his _ex_ -girlfriend.

They agreed that for the immediate future, Peter would be more patient with his friend’s shyness, stubbornness, and, more importantly, _anxiety_ about the bathroom- to a point. They also found common ground in that denial and acceptance were both unhealthy practices for the sake of his dignity.

Either way, it brought a renewed, heightened degree of seriousness to the challenges Neal faced on a regular basis. Not a joke, not something to brush off as occasional silliness or dismiss as a trivial trouble, with relieving oneself at certain “strange” times.

It was just who he was. Quirky. And it was fine.

* * *

Mozzie had figured out what happened earlier that very blasted Friday. After the Suit had left, and the anklet was back on Neal’s left ankle, the con man had poured himself a glass of wine. 

When his conspiratorial accomplice returned from Wednesday, the bottle was barely emptied past the point it had been, last time Haversham had indulged in his nr. 1 vice.

“You wet yourself,” Mozzie’s clever intuition inferred.

“A while ago, but yes,” Neal clarified, for the sake of factual truth. “How’d you reckon that all of a sudden?”

“You’re drinking wine in moderation. Or well, more moderately than usual. You’re going the extra mile not to tick off your renal system. Which would only be a concern for you in your own house, if you have a grudge against it. It can only do one wrong. Humiliation. Condolences, comrade,” the bespectacled professor bowed in equal sympathy to the enemy, later on.

“Appreciate the sentiment,” Caffrey quipped quietly, his ocular nerves utterly peeled on his reading material.

“You know, it’s not the end of the world,” the sceptic remarked, sceptically.

“Of course not, I would hate to anger the doomsday preparedness community,” Neal deadpanned.

“I’m being sincere here, _mon frére_. I hope Peter finds out; you’re clearly not taking my word at face value,” Moz lamented.

“I just can’t look on the bright side right now. Someone’s bound to have found the puddle under the table by now, and whether anyone knows it was me who made it is a coin toss,” he complained.

“You know negativity is kind of my thing, right?” he reminded the poor dramatic soul sitting across from him.

“Sorry,” the Greek tragedy apologised with a smirk.

“And will you stop it with the sorry; feeling sorry for yourself. You bounced back from seeing the love of your life burn to death in front of your eyes! This is nothing. Summon some of that strength, s’il vous plaît,” Mozzie requested.

“You know, your bedside manner could you some finessing,” Neal criticised.

“I’m only saying what you need to hear. You’d rather beat yourself up than move on, and for what? You’re not to blame. No one is. Shit happens. Just be glad it didn’t,”

This made him laugh.

“There is that,” he relented.

“Take it from the top,” his friend expressed interest in the story.

Neal described the scene in vivid detail, including the man who left obnoxiously.

“Wait a nanosecond- glasses, greying hair, dark liquor? Did he have a British accent?” Mozzie remembered.

“I think so, yeah,” Caffrey confirmed, not entirely sure when he had heard it.

“That’s Rufus’ side piece, Simon. Huh. Surprised he lasted that long,” 

“That makes two of us,” Neal sulked.

“Uh uh, none of that. We’re not going there again. I need more wine,” Mozzie groused.

“Help yourself; you always do,” he welcomed.

His mentor chuckled. “There’s the Neal Caffrey I remember,”

Step by step, piece by piece...Neal let go of his shame. The dark knight was eventually lifted back up into the light. The rest of the evening was spent basking in its glow, and the security of knowing that no forced recollection of the dreadful day he’d suffered was heading his way, ever again.

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> WC² now has its own discord server! [Check it out](https://discord.gg/GzuzyEtF) here!


End file.
